


An Bruane

by sassafrasx



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Dark, Druids, M/M, Magic, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/pseuds/sassafrasx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camelot has been at war with the Druids for decades, ever since Arthur's birth, and neither Merlin nor Arthur have ever known anything else. But destiny is a many twisted thing and when their paths are thrown on a collision course, there will be a reckoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreyaFenris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaFenris/gifts).



> Firstly, a huge, huge thank you to my artist, who has been beyond amazing throughout this whole process. And patient, very, very patient, as my life has sort of gone to hell in a handbasket this year. (It turns out that even when you're not the one sick, spending lots of time in hospitals is not conducive to writing, who knew?) Anyway, she is fabulous and I only hope my fic is a fraction as good as the one she deserves. This was a real collaboration on both our parts and I used many of her ideas, not to mention that the artwork itself [turned out amaaaazing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1567628), so please go leave her all the love she deserves <3
> 
> I also need to thank Asya a million times over for coming in at the last minute after my friend who usually betas for me disappeared completely with no warning. She picked me up and dusted me off (and probably saved me from actually going crazy) and this fic is so much better thanks to her assistance. You are wonderful, thank you dear.
> 
> And of course I need to thank our amazing mod for all of her patience with me this year. I know I have been particularly hard to corner at times since life has been a mess, but she was absolutely awesome about it all and she really deserves all the props in the world for putting up with people like me. I can only imagine how much work running something like this takes.
> 
> 'An Bruane' means "fire-seed, embers from which other fires are lit," which I found in an old Gaelic dictionary and thought fit this fic perfectly.
> 
> Well, here it is. Many days late and a lot short, but it's done, and thank you again to everyone who has helped me through this process.

The mud came up around Arthur’s ankles, sloshing like a living, pulsing thing as it twined around the men on the field. They’d seen the first snow that morning, the flurries soon giving way to the kind of biting rain that could flay a man with its teeth.

There would be no choice but to retreat and make camp for the winter soon. No hope for fighting and little more to do than hunker down around the fire and wait for spring’s thaw upon the battlefield.

Of course they would always have to be on alert; the Druids were barbarians known to attack without compunction when even the most uncivilised brute would be holing up in the snow.

Arthur knew this and calculated it and prepared for it.

None of this, he admitted, changed the fact that the first thing he should actually be thinking about was how to win this battle when their enemy had somehow found a way to turn the _mud_ of all things against them.

Growling, he slashed his sword at the ground, ineffectually trying to stop himself from being pulled deeper into the muck. The rain was so thick now he couldn’t even see, the sorcerers hiding and wielding the elements as if they were gods, not men.

No one should have that kind of power. It tainted everything it touched. He ignored the angry, betrayed flash of green eyes that still haunted him.

He heard a howl off to his right and nearly fell over, ramming his sword down until it lodged in the solid ground below to stop himself from being swept away in the rising tide of mud.

When he looked over, squinting through the freezing sleet, his heart stopped cold. Ropes of mud had wrapped around Owain's arms, pulling him slowly farther onto the sword, _his own sword_ , which was hovering in the air and ripping through his chest, as great rivulets of blood slipped down his chin. With glassy eyes he stuttered to say something through the choking liquid but Arthur couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of the rain at his temple and the thudding rage in his heart.

Surveying what he could see of the carnage all around him, determination rose hot and fierce through his chest and he wrenched his sword out of the muck, roaring, “ _For Camelot!_ ” and surged through the thickening mud until he heard the crunch of bone and sinew underneath steel, the cries of his knights at his back.

When the last of the meagre daylight had faded and the battle had ceased, he spared a bitter thought over the bodies strewn about the clearing that both sides had lost that day and he wondered what there even was to win in the midst of these terrible, endless battles.

—

Tipping his head back to the sun, Merlin enjoyed the salty air whipping about his face. It wasn't often that he found himself at the shore, gazing across the ragged sea, and he always tried to enjoy what little scrap of comfort he could find whilst he was there.

Not that there was a lot. His skin still felt raw and frigid from the unending torrent of jagged sleet the day before. By all accounts the battle had been a horrific bloodbath on both sides. Although they had been able to use the elements to their advantage this time, truthfully they no longer had enough powerful sorcerers to turn the war in their favour. There were precious few of them left.

Uther had seen to that decades ago.

Sometimes he thought that this was the closest he would ever get to flying, the biting breeze that battered the shore constantly and took no quarter. He frowned and supposed he'd never know for sure, now that all the dragons were gone and he was nothing but a remnant[5]  of a lost people.

But he dreamt and this was always what it felt like.

Narrowing his eyes, he heaved a sigh and ignored the curiosity that gnawed at him whenever he looked at the horizon and couldn't see the land he knew was there, the land his people had come from. It was there, somewhere, just as lost and incomprehensible to him as his dragon kin.

He loved to watch the sea, even if it only ever seemed to make him idly morose.

Of course the limited peace he found would never be for long. Even now he could feel Nimueh coming up behind him, settling herself at his side.

"Sometimes I think we were too easy on you as a child. When the Priestesses taught me the true power, they had me sacrifice a newborn babe. Maybe we've been remiss in your education," she mused.

Merlin glared and made a noncommittal grunt in response. He did not bother to pretend that he thought highly of the way the High Priestesses were trained.

Nimueh laughed and eyed him with a cunning gleam. "Just thought I should warn you. There are whispers of you going soft, you know."

"Soft?" Merlin repeated. "That's a load of shite and you know it. I've been leading the campaigns for the past three summers and have been preparing for the war practically my entire life, which the Elders saw to themselves. So whatever trouble you're trying to stir, you can leave it. I've no interest in playing your games."

Nimueh hummed lightly. "Perhaps," she said, then leant forward to whisper in his ear, "but you can never be too careful about these things. Everyone is so anxious to find you a pretty wife and see your prophecy fulfilled, it'd be a shame if the people lost faith." With the last, she trailed a finger softly down his arm until he shuddered.

Smirking, she pushed herself up and said, "Well, never say I didn't warn you, Emrys. The last of the Elders are here and the clan meeting will begin soon, so you'd best get up and stop staring off into the waves."

He sighed. There was nothing for it then; time to face the day.

—

Morgause watched everyone filing in with glowering, impassive eyes. Few knew how to read her and she preferred it that way.

They said the world’s salvation would be the King and the Dragon. Morgause always laughed at that.

At this point she was certain there was no return for them. After decades of fields burnt to the ground and mass starvation, innumerable burnings and mass graves, there was no way forward she could see that wasn’t hell.

But if the Goddesses had seen fit to abandon them to their well-deserved fate (of this she had no doubt), she would see Morgana reign this hell[6]  on earth if it was the last thing she did.

She readily accepted that it might well be.

Sweet, pretty Morgana. That throne was as rightfully hers as anyone’s, and she was certainly more worthy than any child of Ygraine.

If that meant she had to wrangle Morgana’s betrothal to Emrys, no matter how much she disliked the idea, then she would.

And Morgana, child that she was in so many ways, still seemed to kiss the ground he walked on, powerful saviour that so many believed him to be. No matter, she would learn the error of her ways in time.

Morgause didn’t care what most of the Elders thought, there was no way that _man_ would ever be half the ruler that Morgana would; and she _would_ see him at Morgana’s side, serving her, protecting her, as he was meant to serve the leader of all Albion.

Morgana had royal blood and a noble heart and Morgause had no doubt that she was the prophesied leader. No doubt at all. Whatever idiocy the Elders had got into their heads about Emrys being both king and sorcerer. Why anyone would ever think that was beyond her. The prophecy mentioned two people and it was nonsense to assume that one man could assume both roles on his own. And Emrys didn’t even have noble blood or any birthright with which to claim Albion.

 _Men._ Always so shortsighted.

Well, they all bled the same as far as Morgause was concerned and she had no time for pondering their narrow souls. So she let them all think what they would. When Morgana and Emrys had married they would all see the great ruler she would become.

She couldn’t wait to watch them kneel.

When everyone had finally gathered round in the large hut they’d put together for the meeting, a small fire chasing away the chill in the centre, Aglain rose and began.

“Most of our non-fighting force has already made for our camp in the Forest of Balor and we will all be joining them soon enough. An update on the recent battle at the foot of the Mountains of Asgard?”

From across the fire where Emrys was brooding with his arms crossed, he sighed and said, “We lost eleven, mostly mid-level sorcerers.” He paused as heated whispers broke out all around — most of their force might not be powerful by any stretch of the imagination, but they desperately needed every single person with even a slight gift. They would feel this blow for a long time. “Camelot lost at least five times that many as far as we could tell. We even got a knight at the heart of the Prince’s inner circle, so there is that. Our scouts which tracked their retreat believe they are making for their winter camp, as usual, with the bulk of their men heading for the other side of the White Mountains.”

Aglain nodded. “Thank you, Emrys. I think we can all agree with the need to keep in constant contact with our scouts, but it certainly appears to be time to be heading for our own winter camp and regroup. It has been a long year and we have all lost many.”

As everyone responded gravely, Edwin stood up and cleared his throat. “I think it is also high time we settle the matter of Emrys’ marriage. Each year we grow smaller and smaller and we need a true king to guide us. We have been in agreement for many years and it is time for Emrys to take his rightful place as king and sorcerer, the one who will lead us through this and into a reign of peace and prosperity. And to claim that place, as we all know, he must have a wife. The rights are clear about this. We have waited long enough.”

Most of the Elders had been in agreement anyway and Morgause knew exactly who were her own allies in this. Let them worship their powerful Dragonlord; she knew the truth.

Off to the side, Nimueh was smirking and broke in teasingly, “Well he has taken a certain lovely sorceress under his wing this past year, perhaps he has finally found someone to tie him down.”

While it fit in with her own plans just fine (at least for now), Morgause had always found the amused, knowing looks Nimueh cast to grate on her nerves. For a supposedly powerful Seer, she certainly missed a lot that was right in front of her. And it was definitely a game she was playing now, with her winking and unfounded rumours about Emrys and Morgana. She knew just as well as Morgause did that Emrys had never shown any interest in any of the sorceresses. Or sorcerers for that matter — at least that Morgause could have understood the reason for. It was rather confounding.

Morgause took comfort in the fact that even to this day the all-knowing Nimueh had never known the curse that had left Ygraine barren in the first place and led them all down this twisted path.

When the circle was filled with ‘aye’s and eager nods, Emrys only pursed his lips and tilted his head in acknowledgement, making Morgause smile to herself.

He’d avoided this for as long as possible and he couldn’t any longer.

—

Following at a distance, Arthur considered the spies ahead of them. He had only his most trusted knights and was confident that no one would be able to detect their presence.

It was strange though.

While the Druids almost certainly had spies amongst their camp at all times — and why were they even sending people when they could use _birds_ ; it gave him the shivers every time a raven cocked its head at him with its beady, unfathomable eyes — these three people, dirty and unkempt with wary stares, stood out immediately. Even the lowliest serf had noticed something off about them, something not quite right.

It raised too many questions: what motive, what reason could they possibly have?

So Arthur had done nothing, choosing to wait and watch, to try and find their plan. Not like the crows, those were killed on sight, regardless of how some men grumbled about ill omens over their pints of ale. Others turned it into a game, seeing who could collect the most heads and hanging them on long strings over their armour in battle, dead eyes flashing underneath dirty beards. There was a certain grotesqueness to the practice, and some underlying magical inclinations when they wore them like charms that could protect them from the magic of the birds' masters (a practice his father no doubt would have stopped immediately), but Arthur chose to ignore it. Whatever helped the men find their courage and fight, grim smirks and and all.

Anyway, those birds could not be trusted; the humans they could track until they revealed themselves.

Of course, the three had simply gone about their business, probably thinking that they had blended effortlessly into the camp, and done nothing of suspicion _at all_. After a few days of this, Arthur was ready to have them executed out of sheer frustration.

And then as suddenly as they had come, they had left. A squire had run into his tent, panting, and said, "The spies, they’re leaving, sire. No one's seen them do anything, or go anywhere they shouldn't, but Eurig heard the girl whisper 'I found it,' when she gathered up the other two."

And somewhat against his better judgement, or what his father would consider better judgement, he had taken only those he trusted and gone after them, leaving Leon in charge of overseeing the winter preparations in the meantime.

So now they were here, still as in the dark as before.

Arthur couldn't decide whether to grab them now, while they were unsuspecting and alone, and take back possession of whatever they had stolen, or to continue on in the hopes of being led to the location of the Druids’ winter camp. They had never found it before in all the years of war, and the possibility of dealing a devastating blow while the Druids were hunkered down and unaware was much too enticing to take lightly.

In the end it was too tempting to wait.

When the three paused to look at the sky and then argue for a bit, Arthur held out his hand, signaling to his men to split up and creep forward silently. There was something going on, Arthur could feel it rushing in his blood. But no matter how much he strained his ears and slunk, crouched and battle ready, ever closer, he could not figure out what had caused them to stop.

The woman, seemingly ending the argument, cut the other two off and led them into the narrow entrance of a valley. As ghostly blue lights sparked to life in their hands, Arthur barely stopped himself from hissing. _Magic_. Despite how many battles against magic he had fought, even after all these years his body always seemed to stir and howl at the sight.

It was disconcerting and he hated it.

The Druids were nothing but superstitious barbarians, corrupted by the magic within their veins, and Arthur would not be quelled. Drawing his men together at the mouth of the valley, he said, "We follow them in; they don't know we're here, we'll catch them by surprise."

Scowling, Gwaine hissed back, "There could be a whole camp of them in there! We have no way of knowing. Don't be stupid, Arthur."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but he's right," Lance agreed, arms crossed over his chest and wary eyes scanning everything around them, hand gripped tightly on the pommel of his sword. "I should go in and scout, make sure there are no surprises."

Arthur rolled his eyes. Lance might be his fiercest and most loyal knight, but his penchant for self-sacrifice was going to get him killed — and then who would be able to stand as firmly and resolutely by his side? Although his tendency to follow him like a shadow, intimidating anyone who dared approach, was frustrating — Arthur could defend himself, for heaven's sake! — he was the best and Arthur could imagine no one else ever taking his place.

"Then what if you don't come out? We'll all have to go in after you anyway! No, we go in together or not at all." Arthur would not be swayed on this; Lance pursed his lips but said no more, tilting his head deferentially, like always.

Arthur could hear Gwaine muttering to himself about ' _madness_ ', and Percy was frowning between them but mute, but Mordred seemed... off, staring into the distance with a slightly dazed look in his eyes, before shaking his head almost imperceptibly and focusing back in on the conversation. Normally Arthur would pay it no mind, but even now he appeared kind of pale and almost nervous, like the youngest and most untested of Arthur's knights he was.

But Arthur trusted him implicitly, like all the men he'd brought with him, and began to scan the area more thoroughly, searching for whatever might have spooked Mordred.

There, on the high side of the valley, Arthur swore he could see two figures. Two people maybe? He couldn't be sure.

When he turned to point them out, Mordred interrupted, "We should go in, my Lord, or they will get too far ahead of us."

Glancing back, there was nothing, and Arthur frowned, off-balance and unsure. He could have _sworn_...

"Sire?" Mordred sounded hesitant.

With one last look at nothing, Arthur sighed and then straightened, unsheathing his sword. "On my lead."

—

Morgana felt it when their kin called for them.

She could tell Emrys was annoyed by the way he scowled; travelling off on their own like that, infiltrating the enemy camp without permission, they probably didn't deserve their help from the warriors that followed them.

But they were theirs: Dara and Corraidhín and Flannán.

Touching him softly on the arm, she told him so.

"They're kin, Emrys. _Ours_. We can't leave them to die. Who knows what Camelot will do with them! No matter what wrong they've done, we must protect them. _That_ is our duty."

He scowled harder and rubbed his face. "I _know_ that, Morgana. Of course I do. That doesn't mean I don't have every intention of sending them away, somewhere they can't possibly fuck up and lead the enemy _to us_ , the second they're safe."

Smiling, she patted his arm. "You will be a great king someday." _We will, together._

Unfortunately he was just as unreadable as always. But finally he gave her a weak smile, the one that spoke to his own uncertainty and troubles. The one almost no one saw.

She felt herself flush, but she grinned anyway. And then he was gone, calling ‘ _Come_ ’ sternly behind him, moving quickly along the familiar paths through the woods.

Huffing, she wondered if she would have to strut into his tent naked to get his attention. They were clearly meant to rule, she _knew_ it in her soul, and no matter how many times she was warned that her dreams were dangerous gifts and to be careful how to interpret them, she was confident.

Even Morgause, who always scowled and baited him with disdain, agreed. Which one of them was meant to be the king and which the sorcerer… Well, that didn’t matter. The point was that the dragons needed to be linked together once again.

_She could see them, soaring together against the bitter wind, scales glittering in the sunlight, free. Two dragons twisting ever faster around one another over a land laden with the promise of a full harvest, peace a shining, glimmering beacon uniting them all._

Even awake she could taste the power of them on her tongue. The two dragons of her dreams.

And she would be a great ruler; she would give anything to protect her people. _They_ would be unstoppable together, uniting all of Albion in a reign of peace and magic.

 _Uther_ would be stopped, must be stopped. Uther and Arthur both — and the rest of Camelot, complicit in their crimes — they would know the rage in her veins.

Even if there were those who disagreed — _Nimueh_ , she thought to herself darkly — he had to take a wife to become king, fulfill the rights. Why he would keep rebuffing her, she would never understand.

Gods above there was not a better sorceress he could hope for.

Yet he kept putting it off, claiming the war as an excuse whenever the Elders tried to corner him, and never showed any interest in anyone. Not even the vaguest hint or rumours of a lover.

He couldn’t possibly be celibate. That was just… inconceivable. And infuriating.

But he never displayed any acknowledgement of her hints.

She had never cared for stupid, strutting peacocks like so many of the knights and now the sorcerers who had vied for her attention over the years; but Emrys was different, full of power and completely lacking in bravado. And when he let himself, he smiled that huge, caring grin that crinkled his eyes and touched her heart. With a startling fierceness, she wished to see that smile directed at her, at everyone, not just the children when he thought no one else was looking.

She supposed they would never be able to be themselves; she certainly hadn’t in many years, not really.

—

Standing on the high ridge, the two of them looked down upon the valley as the knights approached. Even from this distance, she could tell they were true knights, not unlucky conscripts sent off to fight as if they had some stake or care in the world other than feeding their families. No, not those poor sods that she almost pitied.

No. These were not innocent men. A frisson flashed down her spine in anticipation. She stood steadfast and determined, ready to face whatever men they would find. Ready to prove herself. Having been with the Druids for over a year, she had fought in many battles but had yet to see the men of her childhood. She would put any concerns about that to rest with the bones of their enemies.

Because she was Emrys’ right hand. _She_ was the Wrath and the Fury and she would do no less.

Morgause had taught her, believed in her. Drawing herself to her full height, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, remembering the blood red scales in the sunlight.

“What are your orders, Emrys,” she murmured, opening them again onto the scene below.

Emrys pursed his lips. “Tell them to go into the valley. If the knights follow, we’ll deal with them there.”

Breath catching in her throat, Morgana finally had a clear look at the knights as they hovered near the entrance of the valley. _Arthur_.

It was no matter. This… This was what she wanted.

Arthur was no brother of hers. She had her true family to protect.

She would gladly watch him die. He had to be stopped; it was for the best.

“It’s the prince and his most trusted knights, we will probably never have a better opportunity to finish them.” Her voice was steel; Morgause would be so proud.

As she pulled her cloak more tightly around herself, she wondered when the wind had gotten so cold. It stung the back of her throat.

—

Eyes flickering briefly towards Morgana, Merlin could only hum his agreement. Prince Arthur must be truly desperate to find their camp if he thought it was worth following three Druids himself.

Not that he could blame him. The war this year had been truly brutal, leaving both sides battered and scarred and missing many, many men. _Any_ advantage they could eke out to finally put an end to this was probably worth it, whatever the cost. He certainly intended to do so. There was no way the prince was going to escape from this unscathed.

Although Merlin had to admit some grudging respect for a man who had never hesitated to put himself on the front line. Not like his father who hadn’t left the walls of Camelot in years.

Just thinking about those walls made him shudder. The dark magic hung there so thickly Merlin couldn’t even breathe whenever he tried to get close, the morass pulling him down and strangling him.

Uther Pendragon would have been dead years ago otherwise.

Squinting, he asked, “Is that Mordred with them? It is. Tell him to bring the knights into the valley.”

From behind, Merlin could hear Gilli bowing as he responded, “Of course, Emrys. It will be done. And Freya has been brought and prepared.”

The thought of them using her like that, again, set his pulse beating in his chest like a wild, trapped thing.

But he smothered it and nodded stiffly. Even now he could see the coal drawings wrapped around her skin, protecting her. Chaining her. The look in her eyes as she begged them not to wash them off and the shackles on her wrist to stop her from being able to do anything about it.

If he could, he would have etched the protective ruins in ink across her body himself. She’d already been cursed once and such a kind soul didn’t deserve a second.

In war sacrifices had to be made though, he thought bitterly.

As the knights went in, Morgana asked, “Orders, my Lord?”

Nodding, Merlin sighed. “Seal the entry.”

“And the knights?”

“Kill them all,” he growled.

Merlin didn’t worry about Morgana as he left; he knew how desperately she wanted to prove herself.

He could hear the great crash of earth moving at the entrance to the valley behind him.

—

Merlin sighed. Ordering executions, no matter how well deserved, always made his skin itch and left him restless and snappish, seeking the solitude of his tent where he could pace until his tracks had rent furrows in the ground. No matter how much he tried not to, he could still smell the musty pages of his parents’ books as his father would hold him on his knee, admonishing, “ _Remember, Merlin, magic must not be used to take a life. There is a balance in the world and it is up to us to maintain that balance, not destroy it._ ”

Rubbing his eyes, he firmly put away such naïve musings as he always did, wishing that the man who had just entered would leave him in peace.

“Yes, Gilli?”

Half-bowing, Gilli said, “The knights from Camelot escaped the cavern, Emrys, before we were even able to send Freya in.”

Merlin scowled. “And how exactly were they able to do that?”

“Mordred, Emrys. It was Mordred. He helped the prince and his knights escape.” Gilli flinched minutely.

His stomach twisted, unsure of… well, anything really. So Prince Arthur had escaped. Again.

It didn’t much matter either way, he supposed. Kill one prince and he’d certainly be replaced and the war would continue on, interminably.

Sometimes Merlin wondered if he would even understand peace, if he had it. If he would have any idea of what to do with himself. Though if the Elders were to be believed, he would be spending the rest of his life ruling all of Albion, so it’s not like he would ever have time to himself. As always, his life was not his own.

“I see. And he was told of the plan beforehand?” Merlin asked, frowning and crossing his arms over his chest.

Gilli nodded and bowed. “Yes, Emrys. We spoke to him as they went entered the valley and he said he understood.”

Pursing his lips, Merlin considered his options. By now they would have almost certainly made it back to their main camp with the rest of the army, where they would be safe, more or less. Regardless, it certainly seemed time that he and Mordred had a _chat_.

—

His breath clouding the air, Merlin watched the soldiers scurrying to and fro below him. Camelot’s army had chosen their location to spend the winter well, all things considered. A well-protected village along the old Roman roads directly to Camelot and its supplies. He idly spared a thought about how nice it would be to winter in a place like this and not some isolated corner deep within the Forest of Balor.

Concentrating, he closed his eyes and let his consciousness slip out and away.

For a long moment, he thought he might not get a reply, the first stirrings of irritation beginning to set in. If he had to go down there and drag him out by his ear, he would. He was Emrys after all, damn it. Let their whole army try to stop him.

And what a sight that would be, wouldn’t it.

Finally, he felt the hesitant reply. _Yes, Emrys?_

Turning on his heel, he began his trek back into the woods.

_Tonight, Mordred. At the old well on the other side of the hills. I will be waiting._

—

Merlin watched Arthur’s Bane approach with detached curiosity. The seers had been calling Mordred that since he was an infant, another war orphan like Merlin. _What game could he possibly be playing at?_

It was beyond passing strange; Mordred had never been anything but devoted for as long as Merlin could remember. Even though Merlin was a good seven years older, the two of them had grown up together, taken in by one of the most respected families, destinies seemingly, inevitably intertwined.

He remembered the wide, unblinking stare that followed him everywhere, Mordred’s blue eyes almost worshipful at times, his desire to prove himself and please everyone, especially Merlin, unmatched.

That was why Merlin had agreed to sending Mordred to infiltrate Prince Arthur’s camp in the end, despite the fact that he was still so young, only fifteen at the time. He had just wanted it _so very badly_. He’d even vouched for him and lobbied the Elders for months on his behalf before they’d agreed. But, as Merlin had pointed out, he was Arthur’s Bane after all, so they might as well let him get on with it.

Seeing the scrunched and wary look on Mordred’s face though gave him pause. Sometimes even their strongest seers got things wrong, to which they freely admitted. He could still hear their lessons which they had pounded into his brain: _There is always a choice, Emrys_.

Maybe Mordred had been too young. And while Merlin had never been especially close to him, at least as he could have been — not with all the pressure and training and expectations they’d both had placed on them from the very beginning — they had grown up together.

Maybe Merlin should have done a better job watching over him. Maybe Merlin could have just been _better_ and a lot of things would have turned out differently.

Well he’d already made his choices, not much he could do about it now. So he sighed and raised his eyebrows, arms crossed, as Mordred finally reached the well.

“Care to explain what happened in the valley, Mordred?” He couldn’t be bothered to feel remorse at the stricken look on Mordred’s face when he heard Merlin’s acerbic tone.

Mordred had made his choices too and was hardly an innocent child anymore.

“I— I don’t know. I’m so sorry to have disappointed you, Emrys,” he said, bowing his head and looking genuinely confused and remorseful.

Merlin grimaced. “That’s all well and good, but you still haven’t explained _why_ you helped Prince Arthur escape. It was the perfect opportunity for us.”

“I know, but— Prince Arthur isn’t the man I expected him to be. It just didn’t feel right and I panicked. I’m so sorry. I should have been stronger. It was only a momentary weakness, I swear it.” Huge, blue eyes peered up at him earnestly, pleading.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Merlin sighed. “You’re still young, so we’ll forgive you this indiscretion, _for now_. Prince Arthur might be kind to you, trusting you as he only does his closest knights, but do not forget who you are, Mordred, or where you are from. Or what exactly Prince Arthur would do to you if he knew the truth.” Merlin gave him a hard glare at that, before continuing, "We don't like how close the knights came to finding our camp. If that had happened where would we hide the people who cannot fight through the winter? It would destroy us. So in two days time we will be bringing the battle to them, put them on the defensive for a while. You understand, Mordred?"

"Yes, Emrys." He bowed his head.

Merlin eyed him sharply. "You won't cause any more problems?"

Looking abashed, Mordred bit his lip and said, "Of course not. It won't happen again. I'm sorry, Emrys."

"At this point I must agree that it's important for you not to lose your cover, but I am _warning_ you, Mordred, if you get in the way or interfere again, the knights of Camelot will be the least of your worries. _I can assure you_ ," Merlin said, his power infusing his words with an ominous rumble.

If only there were dragons left alive to use that voice upon.

As he watched Mordred scurry away, face pale, Merlin had to wonder what it was that he found so compelling about the Prince of Camelot and his knights. What could have possibly made him hesitate that day in the valley.

Inclining his head and pursing his lips, Merlin suddenly had the mad idea that there was no reason he couldn’t see for himself. He’d always directed the battles with his magic from well behind the battlefield, so there wasn’t a single man in all of Camelot who could recognise him.

The others would be aghast at even a mention of the idea, of course, but he was Emrys and it was high time he got a firm handle on their enemy himself. Nothing like firsthand experience after all.

He would simply go into the village and observe the men around him. They had Mordred to spy on Prince Arthur and those closest to him, but Merlin could go to the tavern disguised as a travelling bard and get a general measure of the men of Camelot.

And if Arthur’s Bane could find something good in these men, well, Merlin had never really been curious about the knights of Camelot — the men who’d killed his family and destroyed his village — before, but now the desire gnawed fiercely at his stomach and the decision was made for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Gwaine grinned. While there was nothing he loved more than a good fight and the general inactivity of winter camp could make him restless enough that Percival would threaten to tie him down, he had always appreciated the easy access to a good village pub that the lull in fighting brought.

And the tavern was busy that night, thrumming with the energy of scores of men deep in their cups of mead. Sadly Percival was on watch, so Gwaine would be on his own for the time being — and he could already imagine the exasperated expression Percival would have as he rolled Gwaine’s dead weight into bed later.

The others had abandoned him as well. Lancelot was probably off skulking behind the Princess’ tent, a self-imposed one-man army against even the ghost of danger. And Leon had been grumbling something about a shortage of nails earlier, or some such rot, going on and on about it and pulling his hair.

Mordred had been weirdly quiet, even for him. Which was saying something since despite Gwaine’s best efforts the lad was still all shy smiles around them.

He’d long since given up on getting the Princess himself to deign to grace them with his presence at such lowly pursuits. Drunkenness was apparently something best left saved to the privacy of his own tents and closest knights. Such a waste as far as Gwaine was concerned; what was drinking without a dash of debauchery and adventure after all?

So Gwaine was left to his own devices. Ah, well, it wasn’t like he’d ever had trouble occupying himself.

As he grabbed a tankard and made his way to a corner seat with a good view of the proceedings, clasping arms with many of the men he knew along the way, he scanned the patrons and kept an eye out for anything interesting.

Soon he heard the excited grumblings of his table mates. “Aye, a traveller from far to the north—”

“No, the east!”

“—the _north_ and he’s got a lyre and news of his travels.”

A giant of a man with a huge red beard hummed and seemed to ponder this. “”S not often we get travellers from other kingdoms coming through anymore. Must be brave or incredibly desperate to be making his way towards Camelot with the war going on.”

The other men nodded sagely.

Gwaine liked the sound of it, if he did say so himself. It had been a long time since he’d been that far north— He cut that thought off and his skin itched uncomfortably, but he’d very much like to hear whatever news this man would bring. And he would always welcome another wanderer and kindred spirit.

Sometimes even Gwaine had trouble believing that he’d managed to dedicate himself to one cause for so long and he couldn’t deny that he sometimes looked wistfully at the road, feeling it tug at him low in his belly.

But then he’d turn and see Percival’s quiet understanding and ignore it for a little longer.

Princess would be doomed without him anyway.

Settling in more comfortably, he kept his eyes open for this supposed wayward traveller. And he was not left disappointed.

There was a man in front of the hearth at the centre of the hall. His clothes were nondescript with a faded brown jacket and red neckerchief over a simple blue tunic, but something about him immediately grabbed Gwaine’s attention. Maybe it was the small smile he had as he gently pulled out his lyre and strummed a few careful notes with his long fingers.

Percival would like him, he thought.

It was easy to get lost in the steady thrum of music as he played, the men of the tavern a more than captive audience. The songs he played were almost eerie and wistful, and strangely beautiful in their own way. As the men shouted happily at him during the lulls between songs, he demurred, claiming that they were from the north, which Gwaine found hard to believe since he didn’t recognise a single tune he’d played. Not unless he’d come from the other side of the wall and the land of the Picts and the Dál Riata, which he thought highly unlikely.

Gwaine smirked. He’d always loved a good mystery. And every man should have a few — he certainly did.

When he’d finished and put his lyre away, he seemed perplexed, eyebrows arched together, as he quickly became the most popular man in the pub, tankards thrust into his hand and arm pats and calls to sit “here!” or “no, here!” Seeing how much he frowned while he was pulled in one direction and then another, Gwaine stood up and swaggered over.

Hands on his hips, he cocked his head and grinned his most charming, mischievous grin and said, “Now lads, give the man some room to breathe. He deserves a nice break after that performance and this won’t do at all. Not to worry though, because he’ll be sitting with _me_.” And with that, he threw an arm over his shoulder and cheerfully shepherded him over to a free corner.

He could hear the others grumbling behind him, but he was a knight and one of Arthur’s men, so he knew they’d all back down and leave him to entertain their travelling guest. It also probably didn’t hurt that they knew how generous he was with his coin and his fellow soldiers when it came to the tavern. No one was going to risk that certainly.

Once he was properly ensconced in his seat, the man gave him a small smile and laughed a little breathlessly. “Thanks for that.”

“Not a problem, my friend. And thank you for providing a more than entertaining evening. We don’t get too many passers through, as you can imagine. Sir Gwaine, by the way. But you can call me Gwaine,” he said with a wink and held his hand out.

The man’s eyes widened slightly and flickered with something that crossed too fast for Gwaine to be able to process. Gwaine gave a silly, pretentious mock bow. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes a bit, but his lips were twisted with genuine amusement when he reached out to grasp Gwaine’s hand in his own, grip surprisingly firm and sure for someone with such thin fingers. “Merlin,” he said and laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

Gwaine laughed back, beaming widely. _Merlin_. He liked him already.

—

Merlin couldn't really say why he chose to go back into the village the next day.  He would claim, of course, that he was only gathering more intel, like he had the night before.

That was obviously a lie. At least, it was obvious to himself; he had no idea what the others must think of the reports he sent by crow. Even now he knew they were gathering a couple leagues away, preparing for the morrow.

The lay of the land was clear and after so many years of fighting they knew exactly what to expect when they attacked. And Merlin knew many of the Elders would be angry when they realised he had been traipsing into enemy camp, alone, under flimsy pretense. Merlin realised he didn't much care. He was Emrys and if he found the friendliness of the men from the night before fascinating, that was his business.

So he went.

Under the light of day the village was transformed, no longer a camp full of bawdy men and ale, but a hubbub of activity and shouted orders and a neverending stream of tasks. There were shops and huts in the centre where the village proper was and children ran about with their mothers calling after them, belying the martial discipline of the gruff men that surrounded them — if there was one thing Merlin could commend the Pendragons for it was proper discipline. The Romans might have left their shores a century ago, but clearly they had left their mark in Camelot’s blood.

Merlin pretended not to notice the small girl with huge, smiling eyes and a dirty, soil-streaked dress gleefully taking a yellow flower from an indulgent knight. He did not think of where the children would be when the battle cries would sound the next day.

Or of what could happen to Camelot's brutish men, who sometimes grinned and gave presents to pretty little girls.

There was no point in thinking of such things after all. Those same men had proven time and time again more than willing to put Merlin's people up on a spit if given the chance.

It helped when he saw another man, possibly a knight, tripping a stablehand into the mud and laughing viciously with his sunken eyes and pointy teeth. Merlin smiled slightly to himself; that was much better.

Merlin swore he only meant to observe the comings and goings around him — watch the enemy in its natural habitat so to speak. It was amazing that he could fight these men every day for years and still know so little about them.

He supposed there might be a reason for that as his stomach gave a queasy, little flip. His parents had always taught him to honour every life because it was sacred and sometimes he forgot how far the war had dragged him from their ideals.

Obviously Gwaine would have to trample over his plans like the great lumbering, joyful beast he clearly was. With a hearty slap to Merlin's shoulder (which nearly made him jump out of his skin and reveal his magic in spectacular fashion), Gwaine beamed at him, unaccountably excited to see someone he'd only met the day before.

Merlin found that returning the smile was much easier than it should be.

"You always try to sneak up on people and scare the shite out of them at this hour, Gwaine? I might have to move onto the next town if this is the kind of morning greeting I can come to expect."

Laughing, Gwaine said, "No, no, of course not. I save that kind of greeting only for those truly deserving of the honour."

And Gods help them all, the bastard winked at Merlin of all things. Merlin snorted.

"Well next time try to spare me the kindness. Or I'll go out of my way to be as undeserving of any honour as possible."

The slowly sinking feeling that this sort of interaction inspired only reminded him why this was a terribly bad idea and he needed to get away _now_ , before he got in any deeper.

Merlin acknowledged that he was probably not cut out to be a spy. It went against his nature.

He knew what was expected of him and could be the powerful warrior his people needed him to be, but when faced with simple friendliness he was at a loss. He realised he _missed_ just being Merlin with a strength that surprised even himself.

And a small voice in the back of his head asked him what exactly he was going to do now when he saw Gwaine swinging his sword at him on the battlefield, like the fierce, talented warrior he was. And Merlin knew he was; Gwaine's reputation spoke for itself.

Bad bad bad. He had a war to fight. What was he _thinking_? May the Goddess forgive him for his stupidity. He had his people to protect, not time to spend fraternising with the enemy.

Gwaine laughed even more, giving Merlin's shoulder a good squeeze. "Ah, but you see, my friend, those kind of people are definitely my favourite."

Rolling his eyes, Merlin muttered, "Of course they are."

He really wished that Gwaine wasn't so charming; it made it impossible for Merlin to dislike him. And he wanted to, so badly. Such was life, he supposed. _You not only don't get what you want, you get to find good men —_ great _men — to fight against and cut their throat in battle_. And what a pleasant thought that was. It didn't matter who you were in the heat of combat.

"Come on, have you had breakfast yet? Let me give you the grand tour of this lovely village and we'll snag a bite to eat. I'm famished after last night."

Nodding, Merlin followed along behind Gwaine.

He _was_ hungry.

As he found himself laden down with a thick, rich stew, Merlin marvelled yet again at the way the men around him easily welcomed him into their camp. Here he was, a perfect stranger, sitting around the campfire with knights of Camelot, for pity’s sake.

But then again, it wasn’t as if anyone was discussing strategy or war plans within earshot. These were just men bedding down for a long winter and eager for what news they could glean from a traveller. It would be a some time before the spring’s thaw made the roads passable for letters and care packages.

Another lonely winter for most. Watching the giggling, barely dressed women sitting on the laps of the men at the next campfire Merlin revised his opinion: maybe not so lonely if you didn’t mind that sort of companionship.

Gwaine was smirking over his bowl when Merlin turned back to the conversation around him. “Looking for a pretty girl to catch your fancy, eh Merlin? Must’ve been a cold, cold bed you insisted on going back to last night.”

Merlin flushed and stuttered, “ _No_. Most definitely not.”

“A pretty lad then?” Gwaine asked with faux-innocence.

Choking, Merlin prayed to all the gods he knew, and even the ones he didn’t, that Gwaine would just _shut up_. All around him the knights were shaking with bellowing laughter and Merlin wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere until they all went away.

Just— Just _no_.

If his own people couldn’t make him answer them, he sure as all hells wasn’t going to even entertain the notions of these utterly stupid, imbecilic, vulgar men who—

And then an imperious voice cut sharply across their campfire and Merlin looked up into scowling blue eyes and a stubborn jaw, his heart stuttering. “What in God’s name is going on here?”

Well. This had certainly not been Merlin’s aim when he’d come here. All he’d wanted was to freely observe the people of Camelot. (And what he’d hoped that would accomplish he didn’t even know anymore.) But there was the Prince of Camelot standing right in front of him — well it was more of a broody, arms-crossed demand for attention than merely standing, but nonetheless, _right in front of him_. With no bloody idea that Emrys was within his grasp.

This was an unexpected development.

The red-haired one, Leon, Merlin thought, looked back at Prince Arthur with a slight frown of concern that was echoed in the expressions of everyone else in their circle.

Except for Gwaine of course. He merely rolled his eyes and complained, “What crawled into your armour and died last night, Princess?”

Merlin didn’t make a strangled noise at Gwaine’s audacity, but it was a near thing. There was no way Arthur would ignore such an insult.

But he did, mostly.

“Oh fuck off, Gwaine. If you must know, George has been struck with that illness that’s been making the rounds and I haven’t been able to find anyone who isn’t completely useless to replace him. Everything is an absolute mess and it’s driving me up a wall. I would bring in one of the squires, or even one of the women from town, but everyone is stretched so thinly as it is.” Rubbing his hand wearily over his face, he continued, “I’ll need one of you to go replace Mordred supervising the construction out to the east. Poor lad’s already been out there for hours. So go make yourselves useful, you layabouts.”

As he turned to go, Gwaine called out, “Wait, I think I know someone who would be perfect for the job.”

Arthur shifted back around and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You know someone,” he said flatly.

“Well, I know many people—”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur muttered, “Of course you do.”

“ _But_ , as I was saying, I know someone who’d be perfect for the job.” Stepping forward, Gwaine pulled Merlin up to his feet and shoved him towards Prince Arthur. “Merlin is passing through and I’m sure he would love some gainful employment in the meanwhile.”

“ _What?_ ” they both exclaimed in unison — and may that be the only thing they ever both agree upon.

Merlin couldn’t remember the last time he was this completely caught off guard. He did _not_ come here to play servant to the enemy.

He was Emrys for Goddess’s sake!

“Merlin here has some knowledge of healing and he can read, isn’t that right, Merlin?”

Tripping over his own tongue, Merlin said, “Well, yes, but—”

“Perfect then! It’ll only be for a few days and then you can move on to the next village. It wouldn’t be so bad to stick around for a little while would it?”

In that moment Merlin absolutely despised Gwaine and his stupid, earnest face and hopeful smile. _Despised_.

It had been so unbearably long since someone had looked at him like that — not as a powerful mage or saviour or someone to be treated with respect at all times, but as a friend whose company was wanted. He didn’t let his traitorous mind even think of wandering to Will and everything else he had lost.

“I, uh, I guess I could wait a bit before moving on. If my help is needed here.”

He also despised himself. Clearly.

Maybe Nimueh was right, maybe he was going soft. Everything about this was unacceptable.

Prince Arthur was simply standing next to the two of them, looking back and forth with a vaguely confused and disgruntled expression. Whatever it was, he certainly seemed about as happy about this as Merlin did.

What Merlin did not expect, however, was what actually came out of his mouth.

Glancing at Gwaine, Prince Arthur sighed almost imperceptibly and said quietly, “If it would really mean that much to you, then of course, Gwaine. I’ll be in my tent.” With a nod at Merlin and a squeeze to Gwaine’s shoulder, he turned and was gone, striding away to do whatever it was that a prince of Camelot did.

Merlin had a sinking feeling he was about to find out a lot more about that than he had intended to.

 _So much for simply observing to assuage my curiosity,_ he muttered to himself crankily.

Well it couldn’t be that hard to pretend to be a lowly servant, certainly. People had been cleaning for centuries without the use of magic. And if he tended to be a bit clumsy when he tried to do things without the magic that was so much a part of him, no one else need know. (He reminded himself that now would be a terrible time to start subconsciously summoning blue orbs; they’d always comforted him when he was stressed or irritated, following him around and bobbing in his wake, calming in their familiarity.)

He’d just get through this day and then pretend none of this had ever happened. Curiosity was a terrible thing and he had had more than his fill.

—

Eyes narrowed, Arthur studied the clumsy man in front of him as he came tripping into his tent, frowning and grumbling at the ground as if it were its fault his long legs didn’t seem to be communicating with each other.

He looked up from under a truly unruly mass of dark hair, keen blue eyes honing in on Arthur immediately. Coming to attention, or some facsimile thereof, in front of the desk where Arthur was sitting, his fingers played almost subconsciously with the frayed edges of his sleeves which were ill-fitting and fell nearly all the way to his knuckles.

He kind of reminded Arthur of a wary, bedraggled cat.

Where on earth had Gwaine even dragged him from, for God’s sake.

When Arthur merely pursed his lips and continued to stare at him, he coughed. “Uh… Sire.”

Arthur desperately tried not to sigh; somehow he doubted he succeeded. Standing up he came around the desk and leant against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know you and I don’t know anything about you. So do not for one second think that this is anything but a favour to Gwaine.” Merlin scowled. “There will always be guards posted outside the entrance and you will not be allowed in here alone. I don’t need much, just someone to pick up a bit and bring my food and run a few errands. You will be suitably compensated, of course.”

“Of _course_ ” came the mimicking, sarcastic response.

Arthur only just stopped himself from making an outraged noise and throwing something at the cursed idiot. _The gall_.

Giving him his most fearsome glare, he continued through gritted teeth, “ _That_ will be enough of that. I do not need to remind you that I am the Crown Prince of Camelot and I will be shown respect. Now stop fiddling with your damn sleeves and do some work.” Arthur waved him off and scowled as Merlin merely huffed and turned away, grabbing things randomly from the floor and throwing them haphazardly on the bed.

Arthur was going to kill Gwaine. He definitely could no longer give a damn that he was one of his best and most loyal nights.

Gwaine could fuck right off to whatever hellhole he’d picked this demon up from.

Sitting back down at his desk, he surreptitiously watched as the cat-demon sent to torture him managed to make his tent more messy, not less. At one point Merlin wrinkled his nose at a pile of garments and scratched his head as if they were something mysterious and bewildering and then proceeded to dump the whole lot behind a chest when he clearly thought Arthur wasn’t looking.

“ _Mer_ lin.”

He scrambled over, making wide eyes and giving off the impression of a kitten that had destroyed everything in sight but thought no harm could ever come to it because of its big, cute eyes.

 _Cat-demon_ , he nodded to himself firmly.

“Yes, sire?” And what an imitation of perfect innocence that was.

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur waved his hand around the room. “Have you never cleaned a room before?”

Merlin crossed his arms and shot back tauntingly, “Have _you_?”

Arthur was fairly sure his mouth had dropped open.

 _No one_ ever spoke to him like that.

Well, except for Gwaine, but Gwaine wouldn't know propriety if it bit him in the arse.

No wonder Gwaine was so enamoured with this— this _Merlin_. (And what kind of name was that anyway — naming your son after a bird of all damn things.)

He resisted the urge to squirm uncomfortably. Warriors didn't squirm.

He did not blush as he told the cat-demon, “Don’t be preposterous, I’m a prince. Now just— Here. Sit down and polish these. Surely even you can’t muck that up.” Shoving a set of knives and a cloth from the other side of his desk at him, he muttered under his breath, “Gwaine is going to be on latrine duty for _months_.”

Merlin looked almost cheery as he set himself to the task.

It wasn’t as if Arthur couldn’t do these things for himself— He huffed. Well, _fine_ , he wouldn’t have the first clue about where half his things actually went, but still. He could take care of himself if he needed to. But as a prince there were simply much more important matters for him to attend to.

He nodded to himself and ignored the quiet snicker from across the table. _Mind-reading cat-demon_.

If he were completely honest, which he wasn’t really, he would admit to himself that it was almost nice having someone around who wasn’t in awe or fear of him, who didn’t seem to think he was any different from any other person. Someone who wasn’t Gwaine and his particular brand of obscenity anyway.

Now if only he seemed actually capable of any sort of work, Arthur might consider keeping him around. As it was, Merlin appeared distinctly uncomfortable and clueless about anything that manservants were supposed to do.

 _He’s not a bloody pet_ , he sighed to himself and tried to concentrate on his work.

—

Merlin’s skin itched. This had been a truly terrible idea.

He would never tell Prince Arthur that he was right, but he was. Merlin hadn’t the faintest idea how to clean a room — at least without magic — and his body positively thrummed with all the power he was holding back. He desperately needed an outlet and jostling his leg was not doing the trick, although the way it made Arthur clench his hands in frustration at least made him feel better.

When a squire came barrelling in, Merlin let out a breath of relief at the interruption. He wasn’t sure he could take being cooped up in a tent with Prince Arthur for much longer without exploding, magic rushing out of him to put the room back into pristine condition. It was like his magic _wanted_ to clean up after Arthur and that was just unconscionable. Maybe if he finally let it out it would at least remember to stab Arthur once it was done. If only that would actually put an end to the war, but Merlin highly doubted it.

“Sire, there’s been an accident at the construction site. The whole wall collapsed and many of the workers are trapped and gravely injured.”

Arthur was up in an instant. “I’ll come lead the rescue effort myself.” As the squire bowed and exited, Arthur turned to Merlin quickly and continued, “Gwaine says you have some knowledge of healing. Go join Gaius in the physician’s tent and do whatever you can to help.”

Merlin nodded, but pursed his lips and then cocked his head to the side. “Many princes wouldn’t bother concerning themselves over the lives of their serfs.”

Just before he pushed out of the tent himself, Arthur shot Merlin a black look and said, “Every life in Camelot is valuable. These are my people and what kind of ruler would I be if I did not do everything in my power to protect them?”

—

Merlin gnawed on his lip. _Every life in Camelot is valuable — I would do anything to protect my people._

He wondered if the Goddess was trying to punish him (not that he doubted She had reason). Sighing, he pushed his way into the tent where he was told he could find the physician.

Gaius looked at him strangely and shook his head as if clearing it of cobwebs when Merlin explained why he was there.

“Is everything all right?”

"You remind me of someone, that's all,” Gaius said with a sigh and sent another inscrutable look at Merlin.

Now that Merlin thought about it, the name Gaius sounded familiar and he knew that he had heard him mentioned before. Curious.

Gaius began to gather supplies and clear off the tables. “Best get started preparing; it sounds like we’re going to be having a lot of visitors and I could certainly use the extra help. What’s brought you into Camelot, Merlin?”

As he began to move things around, Merlin said, “Oh, I’m just passing through. I’ve been to many of the kingdoms of Albion, but never Camelot, and thought I should see it for myself. Strange land though that treats magic like a horrible curse upon the earth.”

“This war has been going on a long time and sometimes it can be hard to remember how it started. But history is always more complicated than a simple war between two peoples. Magic is neither good nor evil; it depends completely upon how it is used. Unfortunately there was a time when it was used for very dark purposes and no one was strong enough to stop them. And now here we are.”

Something hot rose up within him, desperate to deny, to point out all the pain and grief and _terror_ that Uther Pendragon had caused, but it died with the bile in his throat.

It felt uncomfortably like shame.

Because he knew, _he knew_ , exactly the kinds of things that Gaius spoke of, the kinds of things he’d seen perpetrated by those who’d fought beside him for years. And while he’d always spoken out against the worst of those crimes, he’d never truly tried to stop Nimueh or Morgause or anyone else for that matter.

While they were completely justified in fighting for their right to exist and Uther was a tyrant who would destroy the world in his own anger and paranoia, there could never be any excuses for the massacres he’d seen and the whole villages forced to die of starvation when his people had razed the soil with their magic. They would always have to do things he didn’t like in order to protect themselves, but there were lines they shouldn’t cross and it wouldn’t help anything for Merlin to apologise and make excuses for it. Not in any war and especially not one being fought in his own name, whether he liked it or not. _Emrys’ war campaign_. That’s what they called it now and Merlin shuddered.

Somehow he doubted that dark magic had only come to Camelot with the rise of war. So Merlin kept his thoughts to himself and set about doing what he could for the wounded as they came in.

Soon this day would be over and he could spend the winter brooding far off in the woods away from here.

—

The boy Gwaine had shoved at him the day before had simply disappeared.

But all too soon Arthur found himself trying to dodge flying boulders as they slammed into the earth and shook the ground beneath his feet and the thought slipped his mind as more pressing concerns weighed on him. Like how to get to the sorcerers responsible before they completely destroyed their camp and flattened half his men in the process.

He knew there couldn’t be many; the Druids had only a few sorcerers powerful enough for this kind of attack left. So he drove forward, leading the charge through the rubble and falling stone, and made for the farthest edge of camp as fast as he could. Just there, he could see a small semicircle and he doubled back around in the hope that they wouldn’t notice him coming from the side.

And they didn’t. Exhilaration driving him, he went for the sorcerer in the centre, the tall one he could recognise from a distance as Emrys. But he’d never gotten this close to him before and adrenaline surged through his veins in anticipation.

_Emrys would be his._

As his sword began to connect with Emrys’ shoulder, he heard Morgana scream and he faltered, the sound of her voice hitting him harder than any granite boulder ever could.

Then the body before him twisted and he found himself looking into equally shocked blue eyes. _How?_ That didn’t even—

And then those eyes flared golden and the world exploded.

When he came to, he had been thrown back clear across the perimeter and was only bruised, thankfully. The Druids were gone.

A heavy weight settled in his chest as he surveyed the destruction around him. If the Druids came back tomorrow, he wasn’t sure how they would be able to defend themselves.

But they had survived these attacks before and they would again, he thought with grim determination. And then didn’t think about Emrys or Morgana or any of that because he would never be able to rally his men behind him if he allowed himself to.

—

Arthur would never be sure what drew him into the wood that night, alone and following what path he didn’t even know. There was no obvious way in front of him, the flashes of moonlight thin through the gnarled and tangled canopy above him, but his feet moved quick and sure, ahead of conscious thought.

It was… _strange_. And yet, he felt only the mildest surprise as if coming from a distance. Maybe he was dreaming.

What he saw when he came abruptly to the edge of a clearing did precious little to dispel that notion. He was in a large grove he realised, with a small open space in the middle.

But mostly what drew his attention was the man stretched naked on top of the mound in the center. Arrested and unable to move for the life of him, but feeling the most profound _tug_ at his whole being, he watched, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

He wasn’t sure he even had words to describe what he was seeing, or the dizzying pull of attraction to it — whatever it actually was.

 _Sorcery_ , the back of his mind hissed in a voice that sounded rather uncomfortably like Uther’s.

But, God, the magic was positively thrumming through the air and he didn’t think he could have pulled himself away for anything in the world.

The man didn’t appear to have noticed him at all, deep within some sort of trance, chanting into the earth where he was bent over, hands and feet buried in the grass. Slowly, he drew up to his full height, murmuring all the while, his pale skin glinting in the moonlight. Despite himself, Arthur couldn’t help but trace the long, lean lines of his body, from his slim waist to broad, wiry shoulders, and he bit his lip trying to ignore the startling flashes of what exactly that body would look like splayed before him, around him.

He desperately needed to wrench himself away, stop his traitorous mind from whatever spellbound mutiny it was currently determined to pursue.

The pure _power_ it all radiated, however, was shocking to his very core, pulling at something deep within his gut he hadn’t even been aware of.

And then the man turned his head to the side for a moment and Arthur barely stopped himself from gasping with the force of his astonishment. That profile under a dark mop of messy hair.

Merlin. _Emrys_.

He shivered as he watched the faintest gossamer tendrils of magic snake up his legs, winding around his body and melding into him, roots and earth rising up to meet him and twist along his legs.

So much power in one person. He suddenly understood the stories whispered about this man around the campfire late at night with vivid clarity.

The Druids were said to draw strength from the earth and this was— this was so far beyond his understanding he could do nothing but gawp ineffectually.

The tiny voice in the back of his mind railed against him, demanding that he do something, _anything_ , while the Druid Prince himself stood unseeing and vulnerable before him, but it was no more than an annoying gnat in the face of whatever ineffaceable emotion that had settled in his belly like an immovable stone weight.

Truly the strangest thing about the whole scene — which considering the circumstances was quite an achievement itself — was the tattoos wrapped around his skin, covering him from shoulder to foot in myriad runes and strange images, as unknowable and alien to him as the Druids own magic. And the lines, they _moved_ , slinking snake-like along his skin, rearranging themselves in an ever-changing array that told a story in itself.

Not that Arthur had any idea how to read it.

"He is beautiful, isn't he?" a voice whispered in his ear, soft and amused. Knowing.

Jerking back, he finally had the impetus to turn from the display before him, hand gripping the pommel of his sword and muscles tensed and wary. The tiny, amused smirk he found on the witch’s face succeeded in riling his anger in a way that even the most powerful display of magic could not. _Nimueh_.

She and the High Priestesses had taken his sister away from him, turned her as surely against her own family as was possible.

As his hand clenched tighter around the hilt, he had the sudden, chilling realisation that he had managed to wander off completely alone and into some sort of power ritual with the two most powerful magic users in all of Albion.

"You going to kill me?" he growled.

Nimueh laughed. "This is a sacred grove, I could not desecrate the Gods in such a way. And neither will you."

He scoffed, "Your Gods mean nothing to me."

"And yet you haven't drawn your sword. How very wise of you, Arthur Pendragon," she said, infuriating smirk still firmly in place.

God, how he wanted to erase that expression from the world.

Then she went very still, frowning at the clearing over his shoulder. “That’s not— No. Impossible,” she murmured to herself, seeming to have forgotten him completely.

Glancing over, he felt everything go quiet as the magic seemed to recede and then he noticed that the tattoos had stopped moving, a large dragon stretched across the top half of Emrys' back with a bear roaring over its heart and a pair of antlers extending from near the dragon’s head to the tips of his shoulders and another dragon curled protectively at the base.

Arthur blinked and looked back at Nimueh, whose intense gaze was flitting between them both in concern, although he was damned if he understood what any of it meant. Clearly Nimueh, however, didn’t like what she saw at all.

He decided to take what limited satisfaction he could in that.

Narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips, Nimueh fixed him with an unreadable expression, before finally shrugging imperceptibly and beginning to move away.

“You won’t draw your sword here, Arthur Pendragon. You would never risk angering the Gods in such a way and you know it even if you will not admit it aloud. Perhaps you should think about that, you have a long walk back to the village after all,” she called behind her and disappeared from view.

With one last look at Merlin, who was now resting on the ground, quiet, he began the trek back, insides coiled in tight knots and utterly unsure of anything that had happened to him that night.

The spell was broken.

—

The next morning his army waited, tension visible in every single man as a huge gail assailed them, drenching everything in freezing rain until Arthur worried that the whole camp would be swept away.

But the Druids never came, which left Arthur on edge with anticipation, although he supposed even the Druids had to bow before the will of nature sometimes.

In the end he found himself holed up in his tent after sunset, still restless and pacing while he tried to drive the images of the night before out of his mind. As he made an abrupt turn and started back towards his desk, he was shocked to see the man currently sitting in his seat and looking completely at home there.

Arthur quickly drew his sword and held it to Emrys’ throat, growling, “ _How dare you_. What are you doing here, _Emrys_?”

His blue eyes didn’t even flinch and he said coolly, “I’m here to accept your surrender.”

“My— Are you insane? Has the magic gone to your head and taken all the sense out of it? _Guards!_ ” he bellowed, but no one came rushing in.

Emrys made a tsking noise and pushed the blade aside with a flick of his fingers, eyes molten. “They can’t hear you. I’m not an idiot.”

With another wave of his hand the seat on the other side of the desk slid out and Arthur sat down heavily; he had no idea what this _sorcerer_ was up to, what game he was playing, but Arthur could be patient and he would bide his time and wait for an opening.

“You here to kill me then?”

"What, and make a martyr out of you?" Merlin glowered. "Luckily for you I haven't decided yet whether killing you would push Uther so far into madness Camelot would crumble or he would burn everything in his path and destroy us all."

“My father is not mad! Your magic is a scourge upon the earth and it drives men insane in its thirst for power—” Abruptly Arthur felt all the air in his lungs give out, his throat closed through no will of his own, and Arthur clawed at his neck until black spots danced in front of his eyes.

And just as quickly it was gone, leaving Arthur gasping.

Emrys leant forward and hissed, “Don’t tempt me. I could have come here and killed you long ago if I had wanted to and never forget that.”

Arthur scowled at the table and refused to admit to himself how shaken that had left him. “I’m still not surrendering,” he wheezed.

Sighing, Emrys said, “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” And with that he put his head in his hand and studied Arthur intently, gaze flickering all over his face.

“Then why are you still here?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure. You and your knights were not what I expected.”

Arthur snorted and stared at him incredulously. “What, Gwaine win you over with his terrible jokes and incessant chatter?”

Frowning into the distance, Emrys whispered, “He’s a good man.”

Arthur didn’t really have a response for that.

For the first time Arthur really analysed the man in front of him. He looked… different, yet much the same, dressed as he was now. His rich cloak was clasped with a gilded ouroboros pin and fell in folds around him. Even Arthur had to begrudgingly admit that there was something strangely attractive and compelling about him, no matter how much he disliked it. And the sword he carried on his right hip was of stunning craftsmanship, the hilt intricately carved but strong and sturdy looking.

Arthur had always found it odd that the Druid warriors also carried swords with them, but after seeing how brutally effective they could be casting magic with their right hand and striking out with the blade on the left, he didn’t doubt their training. He wondered what Emrys would look like with a sword flashing in his hand and it was not an entirely unpleasant image to consider. Unbalanced and out of his depth, Arthur floundered.

After a quick shake of his head, Emrys looked around and his eyes lighted upon Arthur’s fidchell board, which was tucked into a corner of the desk.

“A game. And then I will decide what I’m going to do,” he said with a raise of his eyebrow, daring Arthur to refuse.

Damned insufferable sorcerers. But if it was a game he wanted then, “Fine.”

—

Merlin watched Arthur set the board and ignored the twinge in his shoulder from the freshly healed scars. Yet another mark he’d have to hide from his people lest they think him too weak to rule. Idly he wondered if the healing ritual he’d performed last night was the cause of the drastic change in weather. It wouldn’t surprise him.

As the game began, they played in silence at first and Merlin followed Arthur's every move closely. The Druids had always taught him that the worthiness of a leader could be measured by how they played the game.

And Arthur played surprisingly well; he would still lose, but he could certainly hold his own against Merlin — almost better than anyone else. He had a surety to his play and he lacked arrogance without being too cautious.

Grudgingly Merlin had to admire his form.

This was all his bloody curiosity’s fault. He shouldn’t even be here again, yet there he was, compelled to study Prince Arthur one last time before he left for the winter.

Eventually Arthur broke the silence. "Does—" He licked his lips. "Does Morgana ever mention me?"

“No,” Merlin said bluntly and watched as a shadow passed over Arthur’s face. “Why do you care?”

Arthur looked up and Merlin had to take a deep breath at the depth of emotion brightening his blue eyes. “She’s my _sister_.”

“Half-sister. And Uther never even really acknowledged her.”

As Arthur’s hand clenched Merlin marvelled at the way his hair and eyes shone in the lamplight, the finest tremor in his body making him seem to flicker before Merlin’s eyes.

“She’s still my sister.” He paused. “Promise me she is well taken care of at least,” he said gruffly.

Merlin had a thousand responses on the tip of his tongue: she wanted nothing to do with him or Camelot anymore, he shouldn’t care, didn’t he know that only one of them would probably survive this war. But Merlin swallowed the impulse and simply said, “She is.”

With a brusque nod Arthur made his next move and refused to look back up at Merlin.

After playing quietly for a while longer, Arthur said, “I saw you last night, in the clearing.”

Merlin’s mouth dropped open. “ _What?_ ”

Frowning, Arthur toyed with one of his pieces. “I don’t know, something drew me there. I must have been enchanted. But I saw you and Nimueh was there. She seemed upset by your tattoos actually.”

“My tattoos, why?” Merlin could feel the beginning of a headache coming on. This was all too much. In the name of the Goddess, why would his magic have drawn Arthur Pendragon of all people to the sacred grove.

“Well they were all shifty,” Arthur said and glanced up briefly. “But when they settled at the end, there were two dragons across your back, one with a bear across its chest and antlers going out from its head, and the other curled around it protectively. You should try a mirror sometime, wonderful inventions those.”

 _No._ It couldn’t— Arthur’s name was associated with the bear. _That was impossible_. What could the Gods mean by this?

Merlin’s thoughts continued to roil through him at a blistering pace, leaving him wrung out, and he went very pale and quiet and didn’t speak for a long time.

With a huff of a laugh, he slid a piece into place and said, “Checkmate.” He looked up with heavy eyes and a small smile. “Well that was a short game, Prince Arthur. You’ll have to do much better than that next time.”

Arthur started in front of him. “Next time?”

“Mmmm. You lost, spectacularly I might add, but you played well and you can tell a lot about a man from a game of fidchell. My sorcerers and I will be gone by morning, your people may rest.”

“What?” Arthur looked utterly confused, but Merlin simply quirked his lips and was gone.

He had too much to think about and a cold, harsh winter driving in in which to do it.

—

Arthur never slept that night and the next day dawned grey but dry. There was no sign of the Druids.

He knew he should be happy, but everything about the previous few days had left him deeply unsettled, stomach clenched tight and uncomfortable as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did and all he was left with was the burning image of sharp blue eyes and myriad confusing feelings he couldn't hope to untangle.

Arthur was frustrated. For all intents and purposes, the Druids had simply melted back into the woods from which they came. It was as if they'd never even been there — and they'd had the advantage, damn it all. Why would Merlin — Emrys, _whoever he was_ — leave on the cusp of such a monumental victory?

It was unconscionable and Arthur hated it. Hated that he couldn't understand, hated whatever it was that had even passed between them during the game, hated that terrible, stupid, _beautiful_ ritual he'd witnessed and couldn't get out of his head no matter how hard he tried. He hated it all and positively itched in restless impotence.

He'd never so desperately wished for the Druids to come back and attack, if only to give him an outlet for all this pent-up frustration. Only then would he be able to stop pacing and thinking in circles and feeling so utterly confused, and actually do something.

“Should we send scouts out to find them and follow them, sire?”

“No, let them go.”

Emrys was not supposed to do this, not supposed to be like this. It went against everything Arthur had always been certain of and struck so deeply into his core he felt unmoored and lost amongst the waves.

It _burned_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a sequel, which is already completely plotted and much of which is written. But it still needs more work, although it is definitely coming. I'm not done with this 'verse yet, not at all.


End file.
